


Bottoms Up

by dunked_delirious



Series: Bottoms Up [1]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Underfell (Undertale), Big Sans, Cock Rings, Copious amounts of banter because author is a slut for dialogue, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Ecto-Penis (Undertale), Ecto-Tongue (Undertale), Enthusiastic Consent, Established Dom Red, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Mild Degradation, Mild Painplay, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with minimal Plot, Reader Is Not Chara, Reader Is Not Frisk, Reader has a vagina, Reader has no defined gender, Reader is in awe at the size of this lad, Rope Bondage, Rough Sex, Safe Sane and Consensual, Smut, So is Red, Sub Sans, Switching, Vaginal Sex, author's last brain cell perished in the making of this fic, brat taming, chekhov’s gun except here it’s a cockring, dom reader, i cannot understate how ecstatic i am to use this tag, reader is a switch, ribbed dick, smut and humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-19 16:57:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19360969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dunked_delirious/pseuds/dunked_delirious
Summary: A sharp yank on the leash cuts him off, and you’re pretty sure he fuckingshudders.“That’s not how this goes, bone boy.” Your voice turns steely. “No topping from the bottom with me. If you want something—” you wrap your hand around his lumbar spine and pump, pulling a strained gasp from his teeth, “—you ask me for it nicely.”Despite his predicament, Sans manages a chuckle, once again treating you to that insufferable grin. “really, sweetheart? gonna make me beg or sumthin’?”You tighten your hold on his spine, rejoicing in the way it has his eyelights glazing over. “For that little piece of backtalk, I will.”Sans bares his teeth. “make me.”Your lips twist in a cruel smirk. Oh, how you’d hoped he’d say that.Shameless smut featuring Underfell Sans. Reader has a vagina; no pronouns or gendered nicknames are used.Now with anoptional sequel!





	1. I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have been accused of being in a constant state of craving to get railed by Sans Underfell. That is simply untrue. Sometimes, I want to be the one doing the railing. 
> 
> This was supposed to be mindless self-indulgence with no plot in sight. Needless to say I completely shat the bed on that one, so have some porn with a metric fuckton of banter because I'm just as thirsty for friendship with Red as I am for sex with him. 
> 
> Written as one piece, split in two chapters for your convenience. If you're not interested in backstory and are just here for the Sub!Red porn, feel free to skip ahead to chapter 2!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> almost forgot — this chapter does feature a snippet of Dom!Red towards the end, in case you’d rather opt out.

The price for riding Sans's big dick was having to put up with his big mouth.  
  
  
In the beginning, it didn't strike you as that bad of a deal, likely courtesy of your wishful thinking alongside your raging libido. One would think that by now, you'd know better than letting those things guide your decisions, but that would be giving too much credit to your ability to think straight when faced with a potential hookup, and a textbook bad boy, no less. Everyone has their kinks, you told yourself. Considering you were currently shagging a six foot skeleton monster, yours might just be getting out of hand.

But morning-after regrets were a thing of the future, and you were firmly devoted to living in the present. And with the present offering treats like a magic tongue and a literal monster cock, the future was just lagging behind in excitement.  
  


Your first night together was a lucky strike that turned out to be par for the course of the nights to come. In retrospect, you figured he'd been playing nice in the beginning—even if Sans's definition of “playing nice” still left you unable to show in public without a scarf for a week. That night must've left him an impression akin to your own, because it didn't take him long to give you an encore of it, this time with more teeth and more bondage.

Somewhere in between learning each other's kinks, you agreed on making this a regular thing, and since then the sub in you had known no shortage of fulfillment. You'd never considered yourself vanilla, but Sans kept hitting spots in you that you didn't know you had, both figuratively and literally. Some nights started at the club and ended in your bed with the sheets torn to shreds, others began as a texted invitation for Netflix and chill that predictably ended in neither Netflix nor chill. Sometimes he’d come over with a double packet of Doritos and an eight-pack of discount Capri-suns, and you’d binge-watch crappy shows on your couch, until either of you got handsy and turned your binge-watching into a different kind of marathon.  
  


It was one of those nights that you incidentally found Sans to be a raunchy sub with an appetite for pain, and no amount of bristling denial or subsequent retaliatory throat-fucking would convince you otherwise.

It’d started out like any of your other nights, with Sans’s disgusting socks on your coffee table and a couch that crunched with crumbs from spilled Doritos. You weren’t even twenty minutes through the episode, and while Sans wasn’t giving you that look, the obviously faked yawn as he slung an arm around your shoulders was no less telltale of his plans for the evening. You made a point of pretending to be invested in the show, throwing a strict look his way along with an exaggerated hush, before draping yourself across his lap as you reached for the bowl of chips on the table, making sure to push your hip against his pelvis as you did so. Judging by the low growl it earned you, the intent behind the motion was not lost on him.  
  
Pleased with your efforts, you clambered back into a sitting position, jamming a handful of chips into your mouth and waving a can of soda in Sans’s face. “Thirsty?”

You didn’t get a warning before his hands were on you, pulling you into his lap. You yelped and managed to swallow your chips a split second before he crushed his mouth to yours, conjured tongue swiping across your front teeth before you managed to wedge a hand against his chest and shove him off. “Shit, Red, you want me to choke?!”

He looked up at you through hooded sockets, teeth bared in his trademark shit-eating grin. “geesh kitten, ‘least let me get my dick out first.”

You squawked in outrage, but didn’t let your indignation stop you from pulling him into another ‘kiss’, pressing your lips to his teeth and drawing a deep murmur from his hollow chest. You could feel the tips of his fingers dig into your thighs as you deepened the kiss, tongue sweeping across ridges of sharpened teeth, earning you a rumbling growl. With the sounds he was making, you found yourself wondering just how much farther you could push him before he’d bend you over the armrest and nail you to the couch. A part of you was very keen on finding out the hard way, so you let your free hand wander—fingertips ghosting along Sans’s upper vertebrae, feather-light touches tuned to tease but never satisfy—while you ground down hard against his pelvis.

You’d love to know some day what it was that did it, but in the moment you were more than preoccupied with the growling monster gripping your thighs and yanking you up and forward, turning you both around until he was landed on his back with you above him, knees braced against the shoddy couch on either side of his femurs. The sheer shock of being on top and not under him after pulling his leg like you had must’ve done a number on your brain, because—

“Bottoms up!” you yelled, raising your amazingly intact soda can.  
  


The silence that followed was deafening. Forget about hearing a pin drop—you could lose the damn thing in the empty voids of Sans’s sockets.

A stupid giggle bubbled up in your throat before you could stop it, and that was the match in the powder barrel. Next thing you knew, the only thing getting boned was your eardrums as the monster inches from your face erupted into hysterical laughter.

You could count on the fingers of one hand the times you’d heard him laugh like that. It was a boisterous, rolling roar, unfettered and infectious, and within seconds you found yourself wheezing, clutching his ribs like a lifeline to prevent yourself faceplanting from losing your shit at your own joke.

With the field days you’d taken with Sans’s body, it’d take a special brand of dumbass not to have caught on to his sensitive bones. Past the initial eccentrity of sticking your arm up someone’s ribcage, your fumbling explorations of your boner buddy’s body had been quick to climb your hierarchy of bedroom activities as you took your sweet time figuring out just how and where he liked to be touched.

You knew that his lowermost ribs, among other spots, could be sensitive to a fault. A half-formed apology was on the tip of your tongue the moment you realized your mistake, fully expecting a grunt of pain and the stink eye he’d give you whenever you were pushing your luck.  
  


You most certainly weren’t expecting what was, for lack of better words, an unrestrained and honest-to-god whore moan.  
  
  
Words promptly forgotten, you let go and stared in disbelief as you scanned his face for any indication of this being another one of his jokes. You were not expecting to be met with blown-wide eyelights, and a look on his face that seemed equal parts confounded and turned on.  
  


Your brain went in for a reboot, and you acted on a whim.

Your hands found his iliac crests as you lunged in for a kiss, a spark of magic grazing hotly against your lips before you were met with his eagerly reciprocating tongue. You let it tangle with yours as you slid your hands up higher, feeling out each vertebra in his spine like you had so many times before, but when you reached his floating ribs, you gave them a single light caress before sharply raking your nails down the undersides.

The deep, shuddering groan Sans let out shot straight to your groin. His hands gripped your hips in a bruising hold, but he wasn’t turning things around or stopping you, and that was all the incentive you needed to let your hands wander further up his ribcage while you nuzzled and nipped along his jaw.

It was the first real bite to the sensitive vertebrae in his neck that produced the sound that sold you in on your suspicions. It sent a thrill of arousal up your spine, and a devious idea sprang to mind. Pulling one hand out of his shirt, you brought it up to rest against his neck in a final pretense at tenderness—and then dug your nails in at the same time you bit down hard on his clavicle.

Sans jolted so hard you almost smashed your nose on his breastbone. A low, guttural sound escaped him, falling somewhere between a gasp and a growl, but your delight over it was eclipsed by the pure and unadulterated glee you felt at the familiar press of something hot and hard against your ass.

You must have looked like the world’s horniest moron with a face-splitting grin and one arm still up his ribcage. “Holy shit, you get off on pain.”

Sans’s face was as red as his sweater, eyelights cast with a familiar haze even as his grin regained its razor edge. “ya think so?”  
  


“ _Yes!_ Holy ass pastries, you’re totally a ma—“  
  


In your delight, you’d completely missed the warning in his slitted sockets.  
  


All you caught was a flare of his eye—and then the breath was knocked from your lungs as you landed on your back on the couch, your face inches apart from Sans’s baleful grin. Your hands slammed down to either side of your face, trapped in a grip you knew from experience wouldn’t budge, and there was no use fighting the hot surge of arousal it sent through your core.

“thought ya did somethin’ there, didn’tcha, kitten?” Sans’s rolling baritone sent shivers down your spine. He shifted his grip so he had both your wrists in one hand, then yanked them above your head to pin them there. “seems t’ me yer forgettin’ who’s in charge.” His free hand rucked your shirt up to your chin, and he growled in appreciation as his eyes roved over your chest.

You laughed and hooked a leg around his hip, arching your back in a pledge to pull him closer. “Well, who’s gonna remind me?

Another growl was the only warning you got before the world spun again as you were flipped onto your front, hands still firmly pinned above your head. Sans’s knees shoved your legs apart, and you shuddered at the graze of sharp teeth against your neck. “’s a damn good thing this couch got legs,” he snarled against your skin, wrenching a moan from your lips as he ground up against your still-clothed entrance, “’cause yers won’t be workin’ right fer days after i’m done with ya.”

You yelped as your pants and underwear were yanked off in one fell swoop, and a clawed hand tangled in your hair to shove your face into the cushions. You heard the sound of a zipper, and promised yourself, in the short-lived moments you were still capable of coherent thought, to find the time to get to the bottom of whether or not Sans was a bottom.  
  


After all, he’d been nothing if not thorough in learning his ways around your body, and it’d be a grand shame to not return the favor. You liked having your partners down to a science, and what was a science without reproducible results?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m aware there’s some discrepancy when it comes to definitions of top and bottom. I usually avoid using them interchangeably with Dom/sub, but here I found the linguistic opportunities far too tempting to resist. My apologies if it’s not your cup of tea.


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You put last week's riveting discoveries to good use, and the fuckery that ensues is literal as well as metaphorical.
> 
> _(small content warning in the end notes!)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello and welcome to sansfucking, let me be your host
> 
> This is about as much back-and-forth banter and Red being an ass as it is sexytimes, but that's what happens when I write this boy. I hope this hits someone's kinks. Enjoy!

So that brings you to where you are now, straddling your generous boner donor on your bed and trying your best to keep your face while he laughs his ass off like your proposition was the most preposterous thing he’s ever heard. His laughter shakes his entire frame and you with it, your ass bumping against his jutting hipbones in decidedly unexciting context. “Are you done yet?”  
  
“yes, just— _snrk_ —fuck, gimme a moment—” He wheezes, wiping a non-existent tear from the corner of his eye socket before turning to look at you, eyelights sharpening as he takes in your expression. “wait, yer actually bein’ _serious_?”  
  
You glare at him and ask yourself for the umpteenth time why you’re putting up with this asshole. “First of all, fuck off, and secondly, yes I am. Why is it—” He’s chortling again before you’ve had a chance to finish. You throw a light punch at his belly—yet another mystery of his unfathomable physiology. “God _fucking_ dammit Red, will you at least share what’s so fucking funny?!”  
  
He looks up at you through actual tears of laughter this time, arms wrapped protectively over his paunch. “oof—sorry, jus’ imagined ya tryin’ ta top and—” He breaks into another fit of snorting giggles before he can finish the sentence. You roll your eyes, your chagrin served with a side of dejection.  
  
“I’ve done it before, you know.” You watch his expression, half expecting him to throw more clever remarks your way, but he’s just looking up at you, edges of his sockets crinkled in amusement. Sometimes he’s way too cute for being this much of an asshole. “I’m not exactly new to domming,” you continue, pretty certain you’ve brought up the switching business with him before.  
  
Immediately, he folds unto himself, snickering, and you regret everything you ever thought about him being cute. In fact, he is the grossest, most abominable gremlin a tragic lapse of judgment’s ever landed in your bed.  
  
Your mouth is already open to tell him as much when he pulls himself together, shimmying up a bit so that he can comfortably recline against the pillows. His red eyelights are trained on you, sharp and unflinching, and you curse your breath for stuttering as heat wells to your cheeks.  
  
Sans, on the contrary, looks giddy as ever, chuckling lightly as he shakes his head. “sweetheart, ya couldn’t be top if yer ass defied gravity. what makes ya think i’ll flop over for ya?”  
  
You shrug. “The boner you popped when I pinned you the other week, mostly.”  
  
His shit-eating grin falters for but a moment, and you’re too busy mentally high-fiving yourself to contain your surprised yelp as that grin returns in tenfold, Sans’s eyelights down to pinpricks as he rakes sharp fingers down your clothed thighs. “and how’d that night end for ya, huh?”

_Touché._ You fight the urge to bite your lip as the low growl of his voice has trails of heat trickling down your spine, putting a hamper on your valiant efforts to come up with something snarky in response.  
  
You’re in equal measure relieved and surprised when Sans is the one to back down, eyelights losing their piercing edge as he tucks his hands behind his head, once-baleful grin softening until it could be best described as goofy. “tell ya what, i’m down for it.”  
  
You’re the very picture of victorious grace as you choke on your spit, the beginnings of your half-assed retort dying in your throat. “You’re what now?”  
  
You’re side-eyeing him suspiciously, waiting for a punchline that never comes. Sans is looking up at you, eyes half-lidded, and though there’s nothing inherently erotic about it, it’s enough to have your cheeks hot and mind stirring with devious ideas.  
  
“i said i’m in. i’ll humor ya.” He says it with a dismissive wave of his hand, and the glint in his eye tells you he’s calm as a cucumber—but that last part still has you clicking your tongue in disappointment.  
  
“Won’t do, bone boy. No lukewarm consent in my bedroom.” That has him rolling his eyes—wouldn’t be Red without his flair for drama—but the good-natured grin on his face (and fuck if you’d ever thought you’d call twin rows of knife-sharp teeth good-natured) told you he was just being, well, him.  
  
“ravish me, o great dominant.”  
  
You barely find it in you to give him a deadpan stare.  
  
“pull my pork. tickle my ivories. rattle my—FUCK!!”  
  
Your hands have found their way under his sweater to push the proverbial Red button—namely, putting your cold palms flat against his sternum. You had been quick to learn that for all his boasted indifference to temperature, skeleton monsters were just as responsive to the cold-hands-on-body stunt as most humans.  
  
While he’s busy cradling his chest and staring you down like you’d just kicked a puppy, you take the opportunity to get out what you figure you should’ve brought up from the start. “Seriously though, it’s just a suggestion. If you don’t wanna, we don’t gotta, and that’s fine, you know?”  
  
You know that he knows; after all, if there’s anything you two weren’t shy to talk about, it’s consent. Even so, you could always appreciate going that little extra bit just to be sure—and from the way his eyelights soften at your words, you assume that Sans does, too. “i know, sweetheart. ‘s why i’ve been tellin’ ya ta get on with it for the past half hour. hell, i’m curious what ya can do.” He resituates himself back into the pillows, shooting you that same sultry, heavy-lidded look that never fails to make your blood run hot. “i’m all yers tonight, kitten.”  
  
  
If you hadn’t known better, you’d fear that the big grin that split your face from ear to ear at his words made you look unattractive. Instead, you embrace it and press your teeth to Sans’s, your lips and tongue following soon enough. Your tongue tangles with his, drawing a rumbling sigh from the unusually compliant monster, your fingers brushing lightly up his arms before curling into the fabric of his sweater. “Safe word?”  
  
“stoplight system.” He mumbles into your mouth, reluctant to break the kiss. He tries to follow when you pull away, but you put a hand on his throat, holding him in place. You live for the awe that lights up in his eyelights.  
  
“Green for go, yellow slow, red for no.” You’re so used to the stoplight system in your casual romps, that its obvious flaw when it came to your encounters with Sans had to be pointed out by him the first time you two played together. Now again, the rhyme rolls off your tongue before you can remember whom you’re dealing with and slap your hand to your forehead.  
  
Sans is ahead of you, chuckling as he shakes his head. “don’t think ‘red’ ’s gonna work for me, sweetheart.”  
  
“Blue?” You offer your own substitute for ‘red’ in your play, suggested by Sans on your first night. You remember him pulling up some background for it, but the exact details of his reasoning didn’t stick, probably fucked out of you somewhere between rounds six and seven of that night. You’re pretty sure it had something to do with blue stop signs.  
  
Sans mulls it over for a moment. “nah, might get weird for me. how ‘bout _‘ketchup’_? shit’s fuckin’ vile.”  
  
“Ketchup it is.” You beam as you clash your mouth back to his, earning an appreciative sigh as he parts his teeth to grant you entrance. “Repeat your lights for me.”  
  
“green’s all good, yellow’s slow down, ketchup is stop.” His voice is gravelly, needy. It’s good enough for you.  
  
“Good boy.” You don’t try hide your smile at the way his breath hitches at the pet name. You shift your grip around his throat, wedging your fingers under the edge of his collar, and tug. “Now _strip_.”  
  
  
The moment you let up your grip he’s up and away, nearly toppling you in his hurry to obey. You waste no time in taking his place, making yourself comfortable in the vaguely Sans-shaped depression he left in your mattress, your mind sifting through countless potential ways to further traumatize the memory foam while you watch him undress. His sweater is the first to go, closely followed by his hideous mustard-colored socks, which he chucks off with so much vehemence you’d think they’d done personal wrong unto his family. The iconic basketball shorts come off next, the golden chain he’s clipped to them for The Aesthetic™ clanging to the floor—and then he’s standing before you in all his naked glory, golden fang bared in a grin that was probably meant to radiate confidence, but has him looking sheepish more than anything as you hungrily rake your eyes down his body.  
  
Despite his eponymous introduction, you’d never truly considered Sans a skeleton—not in the sense you’d usually have them, anyway. Between the magic cock mojo and the fact that he is very much alive, the very structure of his bone is different: thick and sturdy and fused in places a human skeleton wasn’t. The longer you scrutinized the fangs, claws, and sheer _size_ of this lad, the more you realized your folly in assuming he’d be in any way derived from a human skeleton.  
  
“done starin’ yet, ya perv?” His tone is cocky and his posture relaxed, but you can see him sweating more than usual. There’s a fine dusting of red along his cheeks and clavicles that you can’t wait to see all over his bones.  
  
“Please, I’ve barely even started.” You scoot over to the other side of the bed and stretch out your arms to Sans. “C’mere, big boy.”  
  
It might just be wishful thinking, but you’re pretty sure he grows redder at the pet name. The thought has you giggling before you can stop it, and Sans gives you a challenging look, even as he allows you to maneuver him until he’s laid out on his back and you’re straddling his hips. There’s nothing poking your ass yet, but there’s a noticeable hitch in his breath as your leg grazes the sensitive bone of his pelvis.  
  
“so, uh—” He trails off when you lower your mouth to his clavicle, one large hand coming up to your shoulder while the other rests against the small of your back. “—ya got any idea where ya goin’ with this, or should i lend ya a _hand?”_  
  
You sense the shit-eating grin in his voice and immediately know where this is headed in the split moment before the hand on your lower back comes down in a hearty slap to your ass.  
  
Once again, your shriek of outrage is drowned by his thunderous guffaws. For a moment you swear you’re seeing red, and not just in the sense of having a perfect view of the asshole skeleton having the time of his life underneath you.

You surprise yourself with the growl you let out as you launch yourself at Sans, grabbing a hold of his wrists and slamming them down on the mattress to either side of his face. You can hear the catch and release of his breath on the tail end of his laughter, and better yet, you can _feel_ the familiar buzz of his magic stirring to life beneath your clothed thighs. The only thing that makes you happier is the look on his face: red eyelights hazy at the edges, fangs slightly parted in a rare divergence from his smile. You lean in as if to kiss him, only to dip your head lower when he moves to reciprocate, your lips barely brushing the underside of his jaw as you take in his scent. He smells of motor oil and mustard and something burnt that you can’t quite place.  
  
“Oh, I’ve _plenty_ of ideas.” Your voice has dropped low, laden with confidence that makes your own skin tingle. “And none of them involve you getting off if you keep getting _handsy_.”  
  
You pull back, and Sans locks eyes with you, teeth bared in a snarl that’s screaming challenge. His fingers twitch when you let go of his wrists, but his hands stay where you put them. It’s not much, but it’s still a small victory, and so is the hint of a not-quite-stifled moan in his voice when you drag your fingers down his ribs. “See? It’s so much easier when you’re not being a fucking _brat_.” Your fingers hook sharply into the spaces just above his floating ribs and—yeah, that’s definitely a hard-on poking your butt. Sans jerks underneath you and sucks in a sharp breath—one you may be a _tad_ vindictive in turning into a grunt by scraping your nails against the insides of his ribs. “Sensitive, huh?” The withering glare he gives you only emboldens you further. “Lucky me.”  
  
You hear him grumble something under his breath, and are quick to put an end to his griping by ghosting your lips across the flat of his sternum, nipping lightly at the narrowing tip at the bottom of his breastbone. You’re still not sure how to feel about the teeth-on-bone contact, but that falls in line with the whole dick enigma, and you’re just not up for that kind of thinking right now. Your mental efforts are far better spent on recalling all of Sans’s sweet spots as you start from his uppermost vertebrae, carefully pressing your tongue to the spiky protrusions and the dips and divots in between. His grunts and half-masked growls are music to your ears, spurring you on as you slowly but surely make your way down toward the main course.  
  
You’re halfway down his ribcage when a particularly eager lick along the inside of his rib has Sans jerking in your grip, a low hiss escaping through his clenched teeth as his hands snap up from the mattress, hovering for a moment before falling back down with a thud. The retrospective correction is touching, but not nearly good enough for what you’re looking to accomplish—and you make sure to let him know as much, abruptly ceasing your attentions to sit back on his hips. The transition from his disappointed grunt to a strangled groan as you rake your nails down his ribcage—with far less care this time—is nothing short of music to your ears. “Fucking hell Red, do I have to tie you up for this?”  
  
He barks a laugh at that, but the slightest, barely-there twitch of his hips at your words isn’t lost on you. “now yer just encouragin’ me to fuck with ya.” His eyelights rake down your body, lingering where he can see you straddling him, and your breath hitches at the hunger in his gaze. “in every sense a’ the word.”  
  
The sparks of heat prickling down your spine collide head-on with your rising indignation as the latter finally reaches its breaking point. Your first impulse is to dig your nails in harder, make it hurt—but in the back of your mind, you know that’s what he _wants_ you to do.  
  
So naturally, what you do instead is pull back entirely, sliding back up to your feet next to the bed, and watch his grin die a painful death alongside his expectations. Taking him down a peg is its own reward, but the real reason for the smile that splits your face is right before you, standing prim and proud at the crux of his pelvis.  
  
To say you’ve grown fond of his cock since your first acquaintance would be an understatement. While the red glow and the ridges did take some getting used to (and certainly did instill in your mind the image of particularly ambitious jelly dildos), whatever quips may have sprouted in your mind had been thoroughly pounded out of you by the end of that night, and replaced by new and very different associations. Even now, just recalling the feeling of that monstrous thing inside you sends a jolt of heat straight to your groin.  
  
A smidge of your thoughts must’ve reflected on your face, because before you know it, the momentary dejection written all over Sans’s has been replaced by another of his self-satisfied smirks. “yer free to put more ‘n jus’ yer eyes on it, jus’ sayin’.”  
  
You counter with a smirk of your own as you rest your fingers on his iliac crest, taking note of the light hitch in his breath. “Oh, I’ve something to put on it alright—” Your thumb grazes the edge of his pelvic inlet, prompting the barest of shudders. “—though I doubt it’s quite what you’re expecting, bone boy.”  
  
Your words don’t quite pack the punch you wish they did, but it’s enough to make Sans’s grin waver, even though it doesn’t die out completely. His eyelights dart towards your bedside drawer, which is where you keep your vibrator and some of your more light-weight toys (one of the first things Sans had done was to question the smarts of keeping those things in such an obvious place; you had promptly retorted that anyone who goes snooping through your stuff without permission probably deserves to find what they do). You’ve got to hand it to the guy, his guess isn’t that far off—though the particular piece you’re looking for has you crossing the room to get to your true armory: the closet.  
  
You can feel his curiosity burning holes into your back as you shovel pile after pile of clothing out of your way, feeling your way forward with your fingers until your hand lands on a small, rectangular box. Since you’re already here, you figure you might as well make good on your previous threats, so you pick out two lengths of your favorite red rope (you’re starting to see a pattern in your preferences), before turning your attentions back to the main attraction of the night.

Sans eyes you from the bed with eager curiosity, grin twitching upwards as he spots the rope, then taking on an edge of caution when his eyelights fall on the box in your hands. “whazzat?”  
  
You ignore him, dropping the rope on the nightstand and propping yourself on the edge of the bed as you set to unpackaging your recent acquisition. Sans watches you with anticipation, his expression cycling through a formidable range of conflicting emotions in time with your progress, before culminating in pure and unadulterated glee.  
  
“aw, yer puttin’ a ring on me? an’ here i thought we were keepin’ it casual.”  
  
“Shut the fuck up, Red.” _Or your next gift will be a ball gag_ , you almost add, but you wouldn’t want to encourage him. You can’t help but grin back at him as you twirl the cock ring around your fingers, the smooth silicone readily warming up against your skin. “Before I put that smart mouth of yours to work.”  
  
“not a deterr— _hrgk!_ ”  
  
Any further smartasseries die in his throat as you, in a feat of agility to take even yourself by surprise, swing your leg around to straddle him, and promptly crush your mouth to his. His breath is hot and his teeth sharp against your lips, and you smother a groan at the sweet sting of them as you press your tongue against his, swallowing his own strangled rasp as the fabric of your pants drags against his sensitive magic.  
  
You’re almost too into it all to sense the vibrations of a snicker as the bastard grins into your mouth. You pull back immediately, a rebuke already brewing in your throat, when he gives a small nod to his right and you follow his eyelights to the bundle of rope on your nightstand. “gon’ tie me into a pretty lil’ _rib-_ bon?”  
  
“I’ll tie your tongue into one if you don’t stop yapping.” You set the cock ring aside for now, and reach instead for the rope. “Give me your hands, bone boy.”  
  
“heh, if ya need a _hand_ all ya have to is as— _ghk!_ ” A purposeful grind of your hips shuts him right up, his mouth going slack as you repeat the motion with a flourish. The delicious pressure from his cock pries a low groan from your lips, and a part of you wants nothing more than to lose your own pants so you can feel him in earnest, but you’re quick to shut it down as you slip the first length of rope around his wrist.  
  
  
It takes you a moment to get back into it—you’re just a tad out of practice, and the novelty of tying up someone with a body made entirely out of bone is odd to say the least—but habit and muscle memory reinstate themselves soon enough, and guide your fingers through the familiar motions of a two-column wrist tie. You’re so focused on the task at hand that it takes you a while to register that Sans is being unusually compliant, sparing you his clever remarks as he watches you work in silence. His eyelights are trained on your hands, only occasionally stealing a glance at your focused expression. Even as you refuse to flatter him with eye contact, your peripheral vision is enough for you to note—with no small amount of irritation—the shit-eating grin that never once leaves his face. “well fuck me, this is _knot_ yer first time tyin’, is it?” You pointedly ignore his pun, but he continues. “didn’t even have to show ya the _ropes._ ”  
  
“Remind me again why I put up with your shitty-ass jokes.”  
  
“hey now, don’t be bringin’ my ass into this. it’s innocent!”  
  
“Nothing about you is innocent.” You finish tightening the knot and give it a few tugs. “How’s this?”  
  
Sans flexes his wrists against the bond, testing it. “weak. ya know i’m made of bone, right? could make these a lot tighter.”  
  
Yes, you figured as much, but the responsible Dom in you is loath to forego the two-finger rule in any type of bondage. You suppose another perk of fucking a skeleton monster is there being no blood circulation to cut off, but you figure you can’t be too careful, in case there’s some kind of invisible pathways or magic ley lines you aren’t aware of. “And how much is ‘a lot tighter’?”  
  
Sans grins, eyelights glinting with amusement. “a lot as in _a lot_. about as tight as ya can make ‘em.”  
  
“And it won’t hurt you?”  
  
That makes him fall back with a bark of laughter, though he’s quick enough to recollect himself when he realizes you’re genuinely concerned. “sweetheart, yer not the first to tie me up. i’ve fucked around with worse shit than rope, and yer gonna need _a lot_ more ta hurt me. jus’ trust me on this one.”  
  
Considering the things you _do_ know about his tastes, you’re somehow not surprised, but the implication that Sans is apparently not that reluctant of a sub after all is a welcome one regardless. The mental image of him trussed up with far _more_ than a simple wrist tie has you tugging at your knots with newfound zeal, and yanking the ropes tighter rewards you with a guttural sound, something between a gasp and a groan.  
  
“That good?”  
  
“fuck yeah.”  
  
You could tell as much from the dopey grin plastered on his face, and the way he watches with slightly hazed-out eyelights as you secure his wrists to the headboard. It’s almost enough to make you feel bad for the flicker of panic that crosses his features when you climb off him once he’s firmly secured to the bedframe.  
  
“wha—where ya goin’?”  
  
“Shush, got one last missing detail.”  
  
  
You head over to where he’d unceremoniously dumped his clothes on the floor, and pluck his shorts from the top of the pile. As you’d learned to expect from most things Red, they are unreasonably heavy, the culprit likely being the massive gilded chain he clips to them to emphasize his edge. You’d expect him to put up more of a fight as you pry it off, but he just watches you in curious silence, smile upturned and eyelights wary. His failure to see where this is going is almost disappointing, but you’re paid back in scores by the sheer and utter awe that sweeps across Sans’s face when you clip one end of the chain onto his collar.  
  
His grin falters for the fraction of a moment, before returning impossibly wider.  
  
“now we’re fuckin’ _talkin’._ ”  
  
You beam right back at him, reluctantly letting go of the makeshift leash so you can strip out of your own clothes. You’re too far off the deep end to put on a show for him, yet Sans’s eyelights trace your every move, roaming hungrily across every inch of skin exposed to him. His ardor is apparent, and mirrored by your own as it takes every ounce of self-control not to throw yourself at him as you are, probably a blushing mess to match his own.  
  
You have just enough presence of mind to divest yourself of underwear before you’re back on top of him, crushing your lips against his teeth with enough force to hurt. The deep rumble in Sans’s chest trails off to a growl, and you can chance a guess at why; the hot press of his cock against your ass is burning you up, making the air around feel all the colder against your thighs and now-exposed pussy. Small wonder you’re already wet.  
  
The bars on the bedframe creak, and Sans growls out in frustration as his hands are stopped short by your knots. You smile into the kiss, feeling his cock twitch against the curve of your ass, and you respond by grinding back against him, gripping onto his lower ribs for leverage. “Desperate, are we?”  
  
You shouldn’t be surprised to feel him grin back against your mouth. “says the one ‘bout to start drippin’ all over my cock. could smell yer wet across the room, sweetheart.” You shiver. His voice is as deep as you’ve heard it go, hot breaths singeing your lips. It’s enough to set your skin aflame, your whole body yearning for what only he can give you.  
  
Your lips curl into another smile as you think of all the ways you can _take_ it.  
  
You yank the leash towards you, _hard_ , and whatever words he’s sitting on are cut off by a choked wheeze. “Getting real tired of your attitude, brat.” Your fingers wedge under the rim of his collar and pull until he’s forced to look up at you to meet your gaze. “Guess we’re doing this the hard way, huh?”  
  
His eyelights are sharp pinpricks of defiance in blown-wide sockets. You slip your hand around his neck and curl your fingers, digging your nails into the chinks between the bones, and Sans chokes out a groan, sockets wincing shut in what you deem the first sufficiently submissive expression of the night. It’s a very good look on him. “There’s a good boy. It’s no harder than shutting up, is it?”  
  
Sans shudders, and you can’t stop yourself from giving his neck a soft nuzzle before pulling back to search the covers for the cock ring you’d misplaced in your endeavors. Sans watches you with hooded sockets. His grin is back and just the wrong side of complacent, but you’re willing to let it slide this time, your mind preoccupied by a bright new idea. “Hey, open your mouth for me real quick.”  
  
“wha— _hrglk!_ ”  
  
_Payback is a bitch,_ you think to yourself smugly as you shove your fingers into his mouth, all the way to the back where the average human would be trammeled by their gag reflex. It seems skeleton monsters are bound by no such limits—or else Sans is as much a cocksucking connoisseur as he is a cunning linguist—because once past his initial surprise he pulls himself up and _into_ your touch, that wonder of a tongue curling and coiling around your fingers until your hand comes away slathered in magic saliva. “ _Good boy._ ”  
  
Sans glares, but doesn’t quip back at you, and you realize that’s the closest you’ll get to him being on his best behavior. Knowing the extent of his assholery, you can only imagine the sheer emotional toll of it on his poor, edgy soul. It makes it feel all the more cathartic when you finally close your hand around his cock.  
  
  
You know every admonishment in the book about using spit for lube, but here’s to yet another tenet rendered moot by the wonders of monster biology. Sans’s saliva is viscous and does an excellent job of slicking up his cock in a few deliberate strokes. The way he groans and drops his head back on the pillow is its own reward. “fucking _finally._ ”  
  
“Don’t get used to it.” You tighten your fingers just beneath the head, then swipe a thumb across his slit, earning a hiss. “I still have some sass to _ring_ you up for, remember?”  
  
He huffs a half-laugh, half-moan, looking up at you through bleary sockets. “fuck, could ya get any hotter?”  
  
You smirk. “I don’t know, you tell me.” You give his cock one last squeeze with your fingers before replacing them with the cock ring. You decide to keep the vibration setting a treat for later as you slip the smooth silicone over his glistening head. Sans lets out a soft sigh, craning his neck so he can watch you work the toy down the length of his dick. He’s girthier at the base, and it takes some awkward fumbling to get the toy exactly where you want it, with the flared base sitting flush with the thick bones of his pelvis.  
  
When you’re done, you sit back on your haunches to admire the entirety of your hard work. “ _Nice,_ ” you mutter under your breath, only realizing you’d spoken out loud when Sans chuckles and sways his hips, arching his back like he’s the posterboy for a porno magazine.  
  
“’d be nicer inside ya—”  
  
He’s barely gotten the words out before a forceful tug on his chain leaves him spluttering. You inch closer until your faces are a hair’s breadth apart, his breaths hot against your skin as you meet the flicking embers of his eyelights. “Is that what you’d like, bone boy?”  
  
You can’t miss the shudder that goes through him at the tone in your voice. His cocky smile does not quite hold up to scrutiny. “maybe it is.”  
  
You smile coyly. Two could play at that game.  
  
“Oh, alright then.” You let go of the leash and push yourself back so that you’re sitting on his femurs. You bring a hand up to your chest, swirling your thumb around a nipple. “Guess I’ll just help myself. Let me know if you change your mind.”  
  
  
With that, you let your hand slip lower, fingertips trailing down the side curve of your thigh. You raise yourself up on your knees so Sans can see better as you tease a finger along your outer lips, shuddering as you confirm that you are every bit as wet as you’d felt. Your eyes fall to half-mast, but not before you can steal a glance at Sans, who looks like he’s going through all five stages of grief in the sole moment you press a finger to your clit. It makes your moan catch in your throat as laughter. “Got something to say, big boy?”  
  
You see the twitch in the corner of Sans’s mouth; know him well enough to tell he’s biting back something he knows he’d have hell to pay for. His eyes are glued to your fingers, and you beam as you let your movements grow bolder, more than happy to let him have his fill.  
  
  
You have two fingers inside yourself when he grumbles under his breath, “fuck yeah it is.”  
  
You pause, feigning bemusement. “Sorry, what was that?”  
  
“fuck yeah it’s what i want,” he grits through his teeth, his face growing so red you fear his cock might have some stiff competition.  
  
You’d hate to make things easier for him.  
  
“ _What_ do you want? Use your words, Sansy. _”_  The way he bristles at the pet name has you grinning even wider.  
  
“i want _you_ , kitten,” he rasps, voice low and raw and, in your opinion, awful steady for someone who’s tied up and sweating bullets. “you an’ your perfect pussy. wanna feel ya, wanna see ya bouncin’ on my cock ‘til ya can’t remember nothin’ else—”  
  
A sharp yank on the leash cuts him off, and you’re pretty sure he fucking _shudders_. “That’s not how this goes, bone boy.” Your voice turns steely. “No topping from the bottom with me. If you want something—” you wrap your hand around his lumbar spine and pump, pulling a strained gasp from his teeth, “—you ask me for it _nicely_.”  
  
Despite his predicament, Sans manages a chuckle, once again treating you to that insufferable grin. “really, sweetheart? gonna make me beg or sumthin’?”  
  
You tighten your hold on his spine, rejoicing in the way it has his eyelights glazing over. “For that little piece of backtalk, I will.”  
  
Sans bares his teeth. “make me.”  
  
Your lips twist in a cruel smirk. Oh, how you’d hoped he’d say that.  
  
  
He jolts when you lunge towards him and claim his mouth in a fierce kiss, his sound of surprise dissolving into muffled half-moans as your nails rake down his ribcage. He tries to follow when you pull away, and you shove him back down with a firm hand on his collar, relishing the way it makes his breaths come quicker. “Oh, sweetheart.” You press a kiss just above his nasal aperture, hand drifting lower to thumb the cock ring’s vibe controls. “I _will_.”  
  
The noise that escapes Sans when the tiny motor whirs to life is something you’d never realized your life was missing. As you shimmy your way down his thighs, you’re already rounding up the ways you could get him to make more of those noises for you—and his immediate attempt to cut himself short with a curse, while amusing, strikes you as rather unseemly. Good thing your nifty new plaything has just the right button for the occasion.  
  
A touch of your fingerpad on the dial, and his eyelights gutter out, a proper moan wrenched from between his teeth; coarse and needy. The sound of it shoots right to your groin. You sigh wistfully as you slip your hand back between your legs. “How are we doing?” you ask, slotting some care into the tone of your voice. Fond as you are of teasing him, you genuinely want to know.    
  
Sans fixes you with one hazy eyelight and shoots you a lopsided grin. “gotta say, doll, ‘m really _vibin’_ with ya t’night—aw, fuck!”  
  
A rough swipe of your thumb across the head of his dick spares you from more of his bullshit. His hips buck upwards, chasing your touch, and you hiss a curse when it makes you press your fingers inside yourself just a little harder than intended. “You do realize you’re only making things harder for yourself, bone boy?”  
  
You don’t really need his answer—you can _see_ it in the sweat beading on his skull and the flicker of _something_ in his eyelights, try as he might to mask it with a flash of teeth and a flippant chuckle. “can’t get much harder than this, sweetheart,” he says, with a nod towards his crotch.  
  
You deadpan his quip without so much as a glare, refusing to give him the satisfaction as you turn your attentions back to yourself. You stand adamant in your resolve not to touch him, but you’re nothing if not resourceful when it comes to ways of taking pleasure in his body. Your gaze rakes down the hard curves of his ribcage, before fixing on that girthy cock and the toy seated snugly at its base, dark silicone against a hot and vibrant red. The sight alone is enough to make your mouth water. You press your lips into a hard line as you shove your fingers in deeper, eyes never once leaving that massive monster cock. You imagine what it’d look like inside of you, driving into you in hard, deep strokes. Your cunt is aching for the sweet stretch of him filling you, for the delicious drag of those ridges along your inner walls. The mere thought has you panting, spreading your legs wider and making sure Sans can see every single thing as you toy with your clit just the way you know he likes to.  
  
You’re well aware by now of what that does to him, of the switches flipping in his mind when you toy and tease and _touch_ yourself the way you know he’s dying to. You’re playing foul and he knows it, he always does and today plays out no different—except that when he moves to touch you, his hands make it a grand two inches off the bedframe, before they fall back against the headboard with a clang.  
  
You laugh breathlessly, unrelenting in your motions while Sans growls under his breath, hazed-out eyelights growing sharper as he glowers at you as best he can. “At the end of your rope so soon, Sansy?”  
  
The name earns you a withering glare and rumbling growl from that beartrap of a mouth, before he snaps it shut with enough force to make your teeth ache. _Stubborn bitch._ You suppress an urge to roll your eyes. Instead, you double your efforts on yourself, letting your head fall back and your fingers pick up speed as you forgo all effort to hold back your moans.  
  
  
You’re on a roll with your rhythm, half-resolved to just stroke yourself to completion before his eyes, when a drastic shift in Sans’s cussing breaks you out of your bliss. “fucking hell, _please.”_  
  
Your hand skids to a halt, part feigned and part genuine disbelief. You have to blink twice before your mind can process what he’s saying. “Pardon?”  
  
Sans looks at war with himself, fangs bared in a feisty grin that looks more like a grimace. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him this red, or this sweaty. “wanted me ta beg? here’s me begging. got me, fuckin’ hell. just—” His sockets slip shut as he lets out a shuddering breath, and you watch the tension drain from his shoulders. “— _please,_ kitten.”  
  
You don’t know what gets you off more—seeing him this wrecked, or hearing the debut of delicious desperation in his voice—but the sum of it is a hot surge of pleasure that goes straight to your clit. Your mind blanks for a second, and it takes you a few more to recognize the taut, steely voice that answers as your own. “Please _what?”_  
  
_“fuck me,”_ he blurts, and you’re smitten enough with the total lack of hesitance that you’re willing to overlook the omission of the magic word. “use me, take me any way ya want. just— _please,_ kitten—”  
  
You don’t know else he’d say if you’d let him, and in that moment, you can honestly say you don’t care. You’re too busy digging your nails into the damp leather of his collar, and crushing your lips to Sans’s lack thereof. The sheer force of it makes your teeth clack together, and you know your lips will be swollen and bruised but you pay it no mind, because Sans _moans_ into your mouth, heated and desperate, and all you care for is finding out just how much lower you can bring him.  
  
Heedless of the rows of razor teeth, you press your tongue deep into his mouth, seeking out his own and pushing readily against it as he tries, vainly and only for a moment, to gain the upper hand. Your fingers tighten on his collar, and you’re hardly conscious of your voice slipping into a growl as you yank his head to the side, using his startled gasp to your advantage to bite down on that sinuous tongue, hard enough to taste the deep tang of his magic and draw a delicious, stuttered groan from the big, bad monster beneath you. “ _Good boy,_ ” you breathe against his mouth, and this time there’s no mistaking the shiver it sends through him.  
  
Sans tries to follow when you pull away, and you relish the excuse to shove him back down by his collar, before inching your way down his body to sit between his thighs. It is not until you’ve got a sturdy grip on both of his ankles and look up to see the incredulous look on his face, that it occurs to you he must’ve been expecting you to ride him.  
  
A cruel laugh escapes you before you can stop it. “Oh, sweetheart. You squandered your chances long ago.” Sans opens his mouth to retort, only for the air to leave him in a startled noise as you shove his legs up until his knees are pressed to his chest. “You thought it’d be fun to act like a little bitch—” You position yourself above him, his cock a hair’s breadth off your dripping entrance, “—you’re gonna lie down and _take it_ like a little bitch.”  
  
You manage to catch sight of Sans’s eyelights blown wide at your words, a split second before them snuffing out entirely as you lower yourself onto his waiting cock. Sans stutters out a groan, aptly followed by a string of profanity that you lack the mental capacity to parse. You lean forward and brace yourself against his folded knees, the room drifting out of focus as you struggle to wrap your mind around the sensation of his massive girth stretching you open.  
  
“doin’ alright there, sweetcheeks?”  
  
Sans’s voice immediately snaps up your attention. Your first instinct is to scowl—you’re used to hearing that line, having it thrown at you in his usual sardonic tone whenever something he did made your brain short out in pleasure. Looking down at him now, though, you’re surprised to find sincere concern (and more than a tidbit of tightly-packed heat) in his eyelights.  
  
“Just peachy,” you rasp, wiggling your hips so you can take him the rest of the way. “How about the bone-a-fide boy?”  
  
Sans shoots you a bright smile and a wink. “could swear he’s havin’ one _rager_ of a wet dream right now. a real _roof-raiser_ … ah, fuck—” He groans when your hips press flush to his, finally taking him all the way inside. You jolt and hiccup on a moan as the cock ring vibe presses up against your entrance, tickling trickles of pleasure rippling through to where you’re stretched wide around his girth.  
  
“Does this happen in your wet dreams?” you manage with a bold roll of your hips—probably bolder than you ought to be considering the tight fit, but the first proper drag of his ridges along your walls shoves that particular precaution out the door.  
  
“well it sure fuckin’ will now,” Sans rasps out, head falling back against the pillow. You decide you quite like him on his back.  
  
It doesn’t take long for the burn of being stretched so wide to ebb away, giving way to the visceral pleasure of being filled so thoroughly that you’ve grown to love. You take your comfort in a stride, moving faster and dropping down harder, the added vibrations from the ring with each hard press of Sans’ cock inside you inching you steadily towards your limit. There’s no telling how much of it is owed to Sans and the way he groans and arches underneath you, unable to do much by the way of meeting your hips, and soon forfeiting the attempts in favor of lifting his knees higher to give you more leverage. You breathe a low moan at the sight, relishing the way he shudders.  
  
You reach around to tweak his floating ribs, and Sans jolts underneath you, throwing you off balance. Your angle changes, and his breathing goes ragged.  
  
“gonna cum,” he says, voice raw and rough around the edges. You let go of his rib to hook a finger under his collar and tug.  
  
“No, you’re not.” You dig your nails in, right where two vertebrae meet, and Sans lets out something deliciously close to a whine. “Not until I say so.”  
  
There’s a flash of defiance in his eyes; a mere flicker of it before he averts his gaze, clearly remembering how well arguing has served him so far. “oh fuck me.” His voice cracks on the second word. You’re opening your mouth to tell him you’re on it when the hot ridges on his dick graze something deep inside you _just_ right, and your hand clamps over your mouth just in time to save you the embarrassment of a whimper. Your hips grind down of their own volition, and the raw pleasure of the repeated motion brings tears to your eyes. Must be them clouding your vision—unless you’re finally seeing things as a result of long-term exposure to time-and-space-bending, otherworldly dick—because when you look down at Sans, you could swear by all things holy that you saw his eyelights flick into stupid little hearts.  
  
  
“Oh _fuck!”_ Another bout of pressure on your spot leaves your legs quaking.  
  
“oh _fuck,_ ” Sans echoes, and it is the last coherent thing you hear from him in a while as you begin to ride him in earnest; hands under his knees and eyes trained on his face while you fuck him the way he’s meant to be fucked: hard and rough and ruthless.  
  
An endeavor that would no doubt have come easier if you hadn’t decided to mount one literal monster of a man, you muse absent-mindedly as your thigh muscles give a cautionary tale of the hell you’ll live tomorrow. Today, you can’t imagine any of it being too high a price for getting to see him this wrecked, to hear his voice climbing with each deep, filthy moan that he’s given up trying to keep from you. Your angle slips as you trade force for friction, but you couldn’t care less, because it has Sans calling your name, spine arching as he tries to cant his hips into your motions.  
  
You slip a hand between the two of you so you can fondle his ribs, and the force with which he tugs on the ropes has the headboard jangling in protest. “Easy, boy,” you coo, your voice a contrast to your actions as you pick up the pace, sliding yourself almost all the way off his cock before dropping back down. Sans’s sockets squeeze shut as he pants open-mouthed, his breaths going shallow as you feel him twitch inside of you.  
  
Grinning, you slow to a halt, and Sans spits out what you’re ninety percent sure is a string of cuss words in some long-forgotten tongue. You can feel the heat of his pent-up magic coming off him in waves as you lean forward on his legs, your smile only growing wider when he can’t even muster the audacity to glare. “You heard me, _‘sweetheart’_.” You lean in to press a light kiss to his sternum, and he shudders. “Not until I tell you to.”  
  
He shoots you a tired glare, disparaged by the way he leans into your touch. You skim your fingers along his sweat-slicked bones, dipping into the spaces between his ribs and coaxing low, desperate sounds from his throat. As soon as you deem him ready, you slam yourself back down on his cock.

The impact knocks the air from your lungs, your mouth falling open in an “o” when his thick head rubs against your spot. You’re slick and heated and going slow isn’t in your books anymore; not between the delicious intrusion of his cock, and the rolling baritone in your ear, both so distinctly and undeniably _Sans_ as they drive you on towards your limit. Sans is a panting, growling mess beneath you, eyelights blown wide and locked on your face with what you can only pin down as adoration. The muscles in your thighs are burning with exertion, strained from being astride him for so long, but you can’t bring yourself to care; the deep press of Sans’s cock inside you feels too _good_ , and you’re _so close_ —  
  
You grit your teeth and almost sob in frustration as you feel your climax slipping from your grasp, something in your angle slipping at the very last second. Breathless and soaked in sweat, you’ve half a mind to cede to his early offer and have him eat you out, when the sound of his voice breaks you out of your thoughts. “need me ta take over for a while, kitten?”  
  
You blink twice, more stumped by the absence of ridicule in his voice than the nerve in what he’s asking. There’s no way in the world he’d stay put if you were to untie him. Then again…  
  
“That’s got to be the noblest excuse for turning the tables on me I’ve ever heard.”  
  
“not gonna turn anything on ya.” His voice is quiet, almost a mumble. “yer still in charge. i’ll do what ya want me to do.”  
  
…you _really_ want to cum around his cock, goddamnit.  
  
Eyes narrowed, you give him a once-over. His eyelights are soft as he offers you a sheepish smile. Perhaps your thirst is clouding your judgment, but just this once you’re inclined to believe him.  
  
You sigh, reaching for the ropes. “Fine. Just don’t try any bullshit.”  
  
“no bullshit,” he assures you. “that’s a promise.”  
  
That catches you off guard. You know he doesn’t take those lightly. Even so, it dispels the last of your worries. Sans may not hold a track record of playing fair, but far be it from him to break a promise.  
  
  
As soon as the ropes come undone, you push yourself off him. “Get on your knees behind me,” you snap, laying forward on your hands and knees. “Be a good boy and get me off.”  
  
If you didn’t know better, you’d claim you didn’t even catch him moving. His hands are on you the moment he has your permission, hard fingers pressing into the flesh of your thighs. You feel the hot weight of his cock against your inner lips, just shy of breaching you while he pants above you. “is this..? _fuck,_ can i—?”  
  
_“Yes,”_ you gasp, light-headed with need. Sans growls your name, one hand dropping from your hip to brace against the mattress next to your head, claws tearing through the sheets with an audible rip. Your grunt of disapproval melts into a startled squeak at the sensation of cold against your shoulder. You have just enough presence of mind to recognize it as the chain you’d clipped to his collar, before your mind is wiped clean by the feeling of Sans back inside you.  
  
Your choked-up moan at his reentry mingles with his own, a breathy curse tearing from his teeth as your muscles twitch around his length. Your hand tangles in the sheets next to his own when he starts thrusting, speeding up to match the pace you held before. He’s growling under his breath but for once there is no bite to it, and the way he cradles your hip is almost gentle, the tips of his fingers slack as not to nick you with his claws. The inevitable thrill of being pinned beneath a body twice your size is eclipsed only by the revelry in knowing he is bound by your will, and you relish every moment of it as Sans’s free hand roams your body, pinching your nipples and kneading at your skin all the while he leaves you quaking just the way you crave.  
  
You shift your hips higher, and Sans’s cock slams into you at an angle that has you seeing stars. “Fuck, there!”  
  
A wrecked moan wrenches from his teeth as he cradles you closer, upping the ante at your behest. His leverage lends him the depth you couldn’t give yourself, and your eyes tear up in pleasure at the repeated and relentless press against your spot, the familiar blaze of bounding climax coiling in your belly.  
  
In a final stroke of clarity, you manage to get a hold of the chain dangling from his collar and _tug_ , causing Sans to fall forward onto you, and the sudden press of the cockring vibe against your entrance is what does you in. Your limbs give out as you come with a shuddering moan, the corners of your vision whiting out as your orgasm shakes you to your core. Your free hand clutches onto Sans’s vertebrae like a lifeline, and it is not in your plan to dig your nails into the bone, but it does the trick all the same—Sans’s hips stutter as he slams into you one final time and stills, a broken groan of your name tearing from his throat as he spills inside you in hot, thick spurts.  
  
Still dizzy with your aftershocks, you have enough presence of mind to switch off the cock vibe before collapsing to the sheets in a boneless heap. Sans slumps down next to you and rolls onto his back, chest heaving and bones rattling as he comes down from his high.  
  
“sorry,” he rasps out between breaths.  
  
You blink in confusion. “Huh?”  
  
“came without yer permission.” He grins as you scoop him up in your arms. You’re both sweating wrecks, and your skin is sticky and damp against his bones, but you can tell it doesn’t faze him any more than it does you from the way he nuzzles into your chest.  
  
“You get a pass, just this once.” You plant a soft kiss on his forehead, and when he looks up, another one on the corner of his grin. “I’m way too wiped out to be punishing you tonight.”  
  
Sans slips an arm around your waist and pulls you in for a proper kiss. “don’t have to be tonight.”  
  
You smile against his mouth. “Duly noted. Got any constructive criticism for me?”  
  
Sans flashes you a devious grin. “yeah. use hemp rope next time. this silky shit of yers is too fuckin’ soft.”  
  
That gets an honest laugh out of you. “Noted, tough guy. Anything else?”  
  
Sans seems to consider it for a moment, but before long you spot a familiar glint of mischief in his eye. “yeah. ya should totally peg me while yer at it.”  
  
With that tone of voice, he might as well be joking, but you know better than to laugh. A staple piece of Sansitude to lace serious suggestions with levity, make sure he always has a little wormhole out.

The fact that you have cause to know warms you even before you kick up a blanket to drape over the both of you, your smile genuine as you ask, “Would you like that?”  
  
“hell yeah.” There isn’t even a hint of shame in his voice, and that makes you happy.  
  
“Then I’ll have to remember to make you beg for it.” Your hand finds his under the covers, and you trace a gentle thumb along his carpals. “Now that we both know you can be a good boy when you try.”  
  
The blush that’s only just begun to fade out of his face returns at full force. Somehow, it only makes his smile shine brighter. “not livin’ that down anytime soon, am i?”  
  
“Nope.” _Not unless you want to_ is on the tip of your tongue, but Sans cuts you off with another kiss, this time with a generous grant of magic tongue.  
  
When you finally pull away, it is only enough so that you can mumble against his teeth. “Still think I can’t dom for shit?”  
  
Sans’s soft chuckle warms your lips as he leans in to lightly thunk his forehead against yours. “never did, kitten.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _**misc warning:** A mention of pegging towards the end. It’s very brief and it’s not during the sexytimes, but it feels fair to warn any non-ladies to whom the term itself is dysphoric. _  
>  
> 
> i'm still a rookie in the smut fields, please go easy on me
> 
> kudos and comments are my lifeblood, but i already love y'all for giving this piece a chance. Be safe, and do your research before trying any kinky shit!
> 
>  
> 
> ***** There is now[a sequel](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21110330) for anyone interested in the punishment + pegging! **

**Author's Note:**

> I’m aware there’s some discrepancy when it comes to definitions of top and bottom. I usually avoid using them interchangeably with Dom/sub, but here I found the linguistic opportunities far too tempting to resist. My apologies if it’s not your cup of tea.


End file.
